


cannibal hearts

by Grand_Phoenix



Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [44]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Drabble, Minimalism, Revenge, World of Warcraft: Shadowlands Spoilers, brief mentions of decapitation and other gruesome things, but is it really revenge when it's just getting started?, idk we'll see what happens when we get there, kind of i'm still working on that bit, teleporting magical moonbeams from Elune let's gooooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27582326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grand_Phoenix/pseuds/Grand_Phoenix
Summary: No matter what you may think, this is not a victory. [Tyrande, leaving the Marris Stead][Shadowlands era, Death Rising prepatch event, post-The Banshee's Champion]
Series: Warcraft Drabbles, Short Stories, and Other Such Things [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/971712
Kudos: 6





	cannibal hearts

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not the only one that feels Tyrande's victory is hollow. But I think that was probably the point, and I'm pretty sure she knows this on some level; otherwise why would Nathanos tell her he'd be going straight to her? Unless he did that just to be a dick, but I don't believe that's the case when you have different levels of realms of varying metaphysical standards you can traverse in between reality. Therefore I'm puzzled as to why some people are of the opinion that someone at Blizzard has a "hate boner" for night elves...and yes, I'm aware of the 'simp' jokes and misandrist cracks aimed at demonizing Steve Danuser. I don't adhere to that kind of baseless garbage.
> 
> I came up with this idea when I was streaming the Scourge Event this past Tuesday, and I was writing this I pictured in my mind the kind of imagery one would see in _Ghosts of Tsushima_. Except I've never played that, and I don't recall any of the old Kurosawa samurai films outside of short clips on YouTube, so this statement doesn't hold up well at all. But I figure historical fiction such as those have that dream-like quality to them where it concerns samurai, so maybe once I experience Tyrande's story in Ardenweald and have a better idea of what to do (as well as, you know, getting off my lazy hide and make time to do some research) I can do a follow-up.

It’s not over yet.

The adventurers give her a wide berth as she stalks past, what few remains standing from the Blightcaller’s last stand. Bloodied, maimed, fatigued; for once, they don’t glare at a person of importance stealing their kill, nor complain, and if they do—well, none of that matters. There are more important things to worry about.

Such as to where the Banshee ran off to.

_With_ him _, of course,_ the Blightcaller had laughed. _In the darkest place._

She watches the moonlight wink off her blades, in and out, in and out. Had that been a sliver of jealousy in his voice? A hint of sadness?

_Go on. Kill me,_ he goaded her, as she pressed the glaive deeper against his throat. _You’ll send me right to my lady. Beyond the veil she shattered._

Dry grass crackles underneath. Dori’thur glides ahead of her on large, canvassing wings.

He was smiling when his head spilled from his shoulders. Had thumped a little ways from her before it settled to stare up at her, grinning yellowed teeth from mischievous eyes whose crimson luster vanished to reflect Mother Moon back at her.

_—Along with every soul that burned to ash in your precious tree—_

Her knuckles darken around the weapons’ poles.

The entire world has been combed thrice over for the Banshee ever since she fled the Mak’gora. Alliance, Horde, even neutral parties ranging from the Cenarion Circle and the Earthen Ring to the Shado-Pan and those few kaldorei demon hunters that had broken away from the Illidari to join the Alliance after Teldrassil, have had every known corner of Azeroth staked out. Yet there was no word. No word at all, until the dark winged creatures came swooping down from a tear in the sky, reaching for her and for Shandris to no avail. Then a courier from the Argent Crusade, sent by Greymane, came through the portal shortly thereafter, out of breath and nervous, and told them of what happened beyond Mount Hyjal.

Where could she have gone?

Who was she conspiring _with?_

Her brows furrow, her lips pressing to a bitter frown.

_For Teldrassil._

No.

No, it isn’t. Not yet. If he spoke truly, then it was all for nothing. The World Tree is still a charred husk, the night elves beneath its boughs dead, and if the dead are with Sylvanas, living but unfeeling, unable to be found anywhere where no mortal walked—

_I will kill you,_ Tyrande thinks, uncaring of the grinding ache in her jaw. _I will kill you as many time as it takes—you, the Blightcaller, and this master you are serving. And if that is not enough, I will dive into whatever dark heart of hell you are hiding in and rip that foul head from your shoulders with my bare hands. Alliance, Horde—they will have to expend all their young and their old, their weak and their strong, if they so much as think they deserve to claim the Banshee for themselves before me._

_Fools, the lot of them._

_Fool, to have given him what he wanted._

A hoot, low and reassuring, and Dori’thur flies up the open field into the darkness, under stars cold and cruel to bear. Only the soft, ephemeral shimmer trailing behind her silver wings lessened the blow.

Tyrande sighs, her limbs heavy and her bones aching. Dead leaves scatter by her feet on a weak breeze. The shadows lengthen as she descends the slope, then grow smaller. The moonbeam waiting in the middle of the road beckons her, brightening the closer she gets.

Her blood sings to it, thrumming pleasantly, vigorously. Into her fingertips it goes and into her lips it settles, causing her mouth to water. There are no words to this music, only the battle-beat of her boots within that dark place as accompaniment. It weaves her visions of warglaives carve the smirk off the Blightcaller’s face and puncturing the space where his heart once beat, but none so clear and breathtaking as ending the Banshee’s life. Here this image is real, justice made manifest. Here she will find herself bearing her trophy back to Nordrassil for Malfurion and Shandris and Jarod to see, for all the Wardens and soldiers of the Black Moon Army to see, and cast aside all worry and doubt of her ability and competence she had heard whisper in hushed tones when they thought she could not hear them. Then and only then she would put the bitch’s head on a pike, perhaps even carry it all over Stormwind for King Greymane to see, for the boy-king and his simpering court of Light-blessed men and women to see, for the Horde Council and the women who sought to heal the scars and mend the wounds the Banshee had wrought on her cult of cadavers to see, and then and only then would the kaldorei know peace.

Only then would they finally be able to rebuild.

Tyrande breathes, closes her eyes, and allows her world to be swallowed in white, blinding warmth.

_It is not over yet._

_No, Banshee. Far from it._


End file.
